by Lisa Tuttle
Gratitude at having something new to talk about would turn quickly to annoyance as time wore on and inconvenience became a regular feature of daily life; but on this first bright, sunny day after the landslide most of the townspeople basked in the novelty of living on an island. Some, it turned out, thought this was the best thing that could have happened to Appleton.
“We’ll get our ferry now, just watch and see,” announced Trevor Burns, setting one fat Joan Collins and two even fatter Maeve Binchys down on the counter with an attention-getting slam. He was a slim, dark, driven-looking man who had been campaigning for years for a direct sea link between Scotland and Northern Ireland. The books were his wife’s, of course. He had no time for recreational reading. He came into the library on a regular basis to use the photocopier, the fax machine, or the complete set of national telephone books.
“It would be useful to have a ferry,” Kathleen agreed.
“Useful!” He reared his head back as if she’d disagreed, and his little dark eyes flashed. “It’d be the redemption of this wee town—a rebirth. It would put us back on the map!”
Sandy Brown, a large and amiable man who had organized and spearheaded a number of local groups over the years, all dedicated to encouraging tourism in Appleton, approached. Resting his arms on the counter beside Trevor, he paused to promote his pet project: “Daily boats between here and Greenock, that’s the ticket. Never mind your Northern Ireland, it’s Glasgow and the central belt holds the key. That’s where people mostly go by road, and that’s our natural supply of folks wanting a short break in the country. Old-fashioned steamers, for personal choice, but really any sort of vessel would do; fast and modern might be best. Much better than buses; folks would queue up for tickets. They’ll have to put on something like that while the road’s out—I’ve heard it could be as long as six months before it’s made good—and once it’s established, it’ll attract even more passengers. Inside a year, it’ll be paying for itself, mark my words.”
“Ach, well, I’ll not say you’re wrong, Sandy,” began Trevor, when Kathleen interrupted to remind him gently that others were waiting behind him to reach the counter.
“Your wife’s tickets, Mr. Burns.” She handed over the miniature cardboard folders which were the basis of the library’s out-of-date system, and reached to take the pile of Catherine Cooksons old Mrs. Ellary was holding up with trembling arms.
“I think this landslide is a blessing in disguise,” whispered Mrs. Ellary. “Maybe now it’s not so easy to go gallivanting off abroad, folk will stay put and learn to appreciate what we have here at home. That’s how it was when I was a girl, you know. And people were much happier then.”
The only people obviously upset and dismayed about the landslide were the visitors (as tourists to the area were termed), and their concern was understandable. As the self-catering accommodation was reserved on a weekly basis, with Saturday the changeover day, most of them had been intending to leave today. They were English, Australian, German, Dutch, and even one American couple from North Carolina, and considering the complaints she’d heard from the hotel-owners about how bad business was, and the fact that it was the very tail end of the tourist season, and that those who came to the library probably represented a fraction of those who were stranded here, Kathleen was surprised to see so many coming into the library, seeking Internet access in vain, or wanting to look at maps and phone books. These visits tapered off by afternoon, and the level of anxiety dropped as news spread that they would be offered a way out. Information had been posted in the tourist information office and other places—a teenager dashed in just before the lunchtime closing with a notice for the library’s information board—that special flights had been arranged to transport visitors, free of charge, to Glasgow International Airport. One would be leaving the local airfield that evening, and another on Sunday, if necessary. People with cars (that must have been just about everyone), would have to decide whether to leave them behind, or wait for the roll-on, roll-off ferry, which was likely to be up and running between Appleton and Greenock very soon…or, at least, eventually. It was just a matter of bringing the long-disused local ferry terminus up to the necessary safety standards (after finding the funds for that) and allocating a suitable vessel from another route.
The morning was busy, even busier than most Saturdays, and Kathleen was so preoccupied by other people’s responses to the landslide that she scarcely had a chance to consider her own feelings about it. She was merely aware of a faint uneasiness, the notion that she’d forgotten something, and the sense that it was somehow connected with her dream of the library as a huge ship sailing out into the vast, empty ocean, until, as she was checking the Ladies’ Reading Room prior to locking it up for the lunchtime closing, her gaze went to one of the windows, and she was arrested by the sight of a solitary male figure standing beneath one of the palm trees that grew along the center strip of the Esplanade. He was just standing there, staring at the library, his head tilted back slightly, his gaze directed upward, toward the roof.
She froze, gripped by a powerful sense of déjà vu. Although there was certainly nothing unusual in someone—particularly a stranger, as she sensed him to be—staring at this remarkable building, she knew she had seen him before, last night, in just that pose, gazing up at her bedroom window. She’d thought it a dream.
Then the man moved—perhaps he felt himself observed? Kathleen kept still, watching as he turned and strode away, and she remembered the pendant to her dream.
When she woke she’d held her breath and listened for a repeat of whatever noise had awakened her. But it was silent; unusually silent, except for some dogs barking as if they, like she, had been disturbed. It took her a moment or two to realize that it had stopped raining, and without the steady drum of rain on the roof, which had become the norm in recent nights, it seemed too quiet.
Glancing at the bedside clock she saw it was a little after 3:00 A.M. Moving carefully, she’d slipped out of bed, headed toward the yellow glow of the streetlamp, which she could see through the gap in the curtains. When she reached the window, she pulled one side of the curtain back and saw a man standing on the corner, staring up at her.
It was the same man she’d just seen on the Esplanade, in daylight. She only had to close her eyes to see him again, as if his image had been burned in that single moment onto a screen behind her eyes. He was young, in his twenties, with dark hair sleeked back from a narrow, exotic face; she’d had an impression of high cheekbones and rather Asiatic eyes, although that might have been an effect caused by shadows.
She’d felt afraid when she saw him, gripped by the unreasoning fear that this stranger had come looking for her, for some reason she could not guess but which was unlikely to be benign.
After her first sight of him she’d reeled back in shock and pressed herself flat against the wall, where she couldn’t be seen until the pounding of her heart had become less painful, and she’d been able to breathe normally again. When she dared to look again, he was gone. By the time she’d made a quick tour of the house and had seen that the doors and windows were all locked, the motion-sensitive lights in the library garden were dark, and there was nothing obviously amiss, she’d almost convinced herself she’d only dreamed the man below her window.
Until this second sighting proved he was no dream.
Of course, there was no law against a visitor going for a walk late at night and stopping on a corner to look at a public building. Her new home was a structure of architectural interest, one of the landmarks of the town. He might have thought the building empty, never guessing that anyone lived in it. The fact that he’d been out there again in broad daylight did seem to suggest that his interest was in the building, and purely innocent. The odd thing was that he hadn’t come in. Most visitors to the town did; even those with the most cursory interest in the big stone building usually came in to ask questions about its purpose, wanting to buy postcard pictures of it, or to ask if they could go insid
e the dome.
Well, maybe he’d be in during the afternoon, she thought, turning away at last, trying to shake off the unease that her second sighting of him had awakened. She hoped he’d come in and introduce himself as a tourist from Hawaii or an architecture student from France, and dispel the mystery.
But the stranger did not come into the library that afternoon. However, someone else did.
By four o’clock the library had gone quiet. Miranda was shelving books, and Kathleen was thinking of slipping way to the office for a cup of coffee when a man came in. She recognized him immediately with a deep jolt of unexpected pleasure, and as he glanced in her direction she called out a warm and happy, “Hello!”
He smiled back, but it was a reserved, minimal smile; he didn’t know her. She felt her own smile congeal with embarrassment, but although she couldn’t pin a name to him, she remained certain he was no stranger. At some time in the past, she had known him well.
He walked slowly through the big room, glancing up at the oil paintings by little-known regional artists that hung high above the bookshelves before stopping in the travel and history sections to peruse the spines. He was a man in his late forties or early fifties, lean and fit in faded jeans, a maroon shirt, and a lightweight, beautifully cut leather jacket. His long, greying reddish hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he had a freckled, lived-in face that might have been unremarkable except that it was so deeply familiar to her. A rush of heat made her thighs tremble and her breath quicken. Yes, she knew what it was to want him, but her longing had been unrequited. She had been a lot younger the last time she’d seen him—but where and when she couldn’t exactly remember. In America, before her marriage…for some reason, he brought her old boyfriend Hank to mind. In college, then. Could he have been a friend of Hank’s? Maybe a teacher?
She watched the leather jacket shift and wrinkle like skin as he reached up to take a book from a shelf, and she stared harder, willing him to turn around so she could see his face again. Oh, but this is silly.
Clearing her throat, she called out, “Can I help you find something?”
“No, thanks, I’m just browsing. Passing the time.”
She knew that voice. No doubt about it. The accent was transatlantic. He could have been an Englishman who’d spent a lot of time in America, or an American educated in Britain. Who had she known like that in college?
“I guess you’re trapped here, then.”
He turned to face her, removed his aviator-style dark glasses and slipped them into his inside pocket. “Trapped? Well, no, I don’t see it that way. I wasn’t planning to leave for a while.”
“It’s not a bad place to be, especially when the weather’s like this.”
He smiled. “You don’t sound like a local.”
“Because I’m not bad-mouthing Appleton?”
He gave a soft laugh and took a few steps toward the counter. “Tell me, how does an American come to be living here?”
“The usual way. I came, I saw, it conquered me.”
“My experience exactly.”
“Been here long?”
“About ten years.”
That startled her. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d seen you in here before, and I thought—”
“—I was a visitor. Well, you’re not far wrong. I own a house here, but I’ve never been a full-time resident. And I was away for about a year.” He had been coming gradually closer as he spoke, until he stood directly opposite her on the other side of the counter. She was able to see—without surprise—that his eyes were an odd hybrid of brown and green. He gave her a slightly puzzled, searching look. “You weren’t here then; I’m sure I’d remember.”
Her heart beat a little faster. Was he flirting? She gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ve only been here for three months. But I thought I recognized you when you came in—that’s why the big hello.”
“I liked that big hello,” he said, leaning a little closer, so she caught a subtle, attractively musky scent.
The sharp, echoing bang of a book being slapped down hard on the counter startled them both. Turning toward the “Returns” end of the counter, she saw the always-impatient Mr. Rand drumming his fingers beside the book.
“Would you excuse me—” But, with a disappointed dip of her heart, she turned back and saw the ridiculous ponytail bouncing against black leather as he moved with completely unnecessary haste toward the carved doors to the museum. I don’t bite! she felt like shouting after him. And you were the one flirting…
But maybe that, like her feeling that she knew him, was a false perception. Put it down to hormones, she thought as she went to deal with Mr. Rand. The sexual frustrations of the recently unmarried female…
“This is overdue, I’m afraid. That’ll be twelve pence, please.”
“I want to renew it,” he snapped before she’d finished speaking.
“I can do that for you, but there’s still a fine to pay.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. I’m the only one who wants it. Oh, never mind, never mind,” he cut her off, digging into his pocket. “Ten and two make twelve, there. And I have a request for you.”
Miranda slipped back behind the counter while he was giving her the details of the book he wanted. After he’d gone, she turned to see her hovering, biting back a smile, someone with news to share.
“What?”
“I see you’ve met our local celebrity.”
Kathleen glanced over at the door, still swinging slightly from the passage of the impatient Mr. Rand.
“Not him.” She looked significantly in the direction of the museum. “I heard you two chatting away.”
She frowned. “He looked familiar, but I couldn’t think why. Local celebrity?”
Miranda whispered, “Dave Varney.” Mistaking Kathleen’s poleaxed stare for incomprehension, she amplified: “Singer-songwriter, big in the eighties, played drums for—”
“The Stunned Bunnies,” said Kathleen. “Oh my God. I loved them.” No wonder she knew his face and figure, knew those odd browny-green eyes. They’d stared at her out of a poster on her dorm room wall for a full two years. Dear, devoted Hank had driven her all the way to L.A. with tickets to one of their gigs for her twenty-first birthday present. They’d never made it as big as Talking Heads or lasted as long, but she’d adored their intelligent, ironic ballads and offbeat, retro pop tunes.
“That’s right. He bought a hill farm on the Apple about, oh, ten years ago, and they spent quite a lot of time there at first. But then his wife died.”
“Oh!”
“You must have read about it, it was in all the papers—brain tumor. About two years ago. Maybe it didn’t get as much attention down in London. She was Scottish, his wife, an actress called Kay Riddle.”
“I remember now.” Although the Stunned Bunnies had not lasted long as a group, and Dave Varney’s subsequent career had been devoted more to songwriting and production than to performing, his celebrity status revived when his wife, until then a fairly obscure comedienne, got a starring role in what quickly became an extremely popular television series. The following year, she was diagnosed as suffering from a brain tumor, and the two of them became tabloid fodder. It was one of those stories you couldn’t help knowing about even if you had no interest in celebrity gossip. He must have thought…what? That she was pretending not to know who he was? She felt herself shrivel with embarrassment, and the thought of having to face him again made her feel awful.
“Look, Miranda—do you think you can manage here on your own for the next half hour?”
“Sure, go on. If a coachload of visitors suddenly arrives, I’ll ring for help.”
She stayed in her office until closing time, when she emerged to help Miranda with the routine checks to ensure that everyone was off the premises, all doors were closed, and everything electrical switched off before the library was locked up for the weekend. They didn’t exchange another word about the afternoon’s celebrity visitor. Although
Kathleen was longing to talk about it, there wasn’t time to explain to Miranda what Dave Varney had meant to her when she was younger, and, anyway, she wasn’t sure that her comfortably married assistant was the person she wanted to have such a girly heart-to-heart with: Was he flirting with me? Did I scare him off? What’s the gossip about him? Does he have a girlfriend?
Instead, she went home to phone Dara, her oldest, closest friend on this side of the Atlantic. It had been nearly a week since they’d spoken, and now, just after five o’clock on a Saturday, would be a good time to catch her in. They had shared their emotional ups and downs for years; losing her regular company had been the hardest thing about moving north. Still, they talked on the phone every weekend, and one of these days—soon, very soon, she promised herself as she settled into her most comfortable chair and pressed in the number sequence she knew by heart—they’d add to that the joys of e-mail and instant messaging, and they wouldn’t have to feel they were living in different centuries as well as different countries.
She heard the sound of the phone’s distant ringing, hundreds of miles away, and it went on and on. There was no answer, not even from voice mail. With a puzzled frown she broke the connection at last, and tried Dara’s cell phone number. That, too, purred in her ear, and purred and purred without redirecting her to another number or giving her a recorded message.
